Heat Wave
by Huntress012
Summary: In which a freak hit wave hits New York, and something else hits Spot. Rated T, just in case
1. Chapter 1: A Not So Chance Meeting

**Chapter 1: A Not-So-Chance Meeting**

It was a hot day, for an October in New York City. The newsies had been treated to a freak heat wave, bringing temperatures close to the nineties for what was now the fifth day running. Selling was slow, as selling sometimes was in the heat, and SlingShot was annoyed. Last night she'd made the trek across the bridge to try her hand at selling in Brooklyn, and quickly realized it as a terrible mistake. It was even slower here than it had been in the Bronx the day previous, and in Manhattan the day before that. Hell, even Bottle Alley had been practically deserted last time she'd been through there with a stack of newspapers and a will to sell.

"Well, at least it ain't snow," she muttered to herself, glancing down in disgust at the day's headline. Absolute shit. She'd never been good at "improving" the headlines, as Jack Kelly has endlessly attempted to teach her when she'd lived in Manhattan for a time. In fact, she was rather hopeless. Sometimes she heard what another newsie was hawking and used that, but then she had to find another selling spot entirely if she wanted to avoid confrontation. Then again, she wasn't always trying terribly hard to avoid it.

"FIRE BLAZES IN MANHATTAN! CITIZENS FORCED FROM THEIR HOMES!"

Well, she supposed she could have done worse with the story, a bunch of homeless men setting fire to a pile of old newspapers in the street in Hell's Kitchen.

"Really? That the best ya can come up with?"

SlingShot, rarely one to be surprised by much, simply shook her head at the smirking voice behind her, not yet bothering to turn around as a woman clutching a small boy by the hand handed her an extra penny with a sweet smile. Sling pocketed her tip and turned around with a self-righteous smile on her face.

"Seems to be working out pretty well for me, Conlon."

The Brooklyn leader shook his head, taking a relaxed drag from a newly lit cigarette and shrugging with good nature.

"Beginner's luck."

"I ain't exactly a beginner," she shot back.

Spot arched an eyebrow, the smirk turning slowly into a rather suggestive grin.

"No, I don't suppose any of you Bottle Alley girls is suffering from lack of ... experience."

SlingShot, annoyed at being outwitted, simply scowled. Spot took this as an invitation and pressed on with a wide grin.

"Ya know, I should soak ya for sellin' around my parts. Takin' business away from my boys, ain'tcha?"

"Maybe it might be more of an issue if there _were_ any business to take away. Besides," she turned to face him squarely, a light of mischief dancing in her eyes, "you're welcome to try."

It was a challenge, and Spot knew it. But he'd never been one to run about looking to beat up women. Ain't no girl ever got the best of me, and ain't none ever gonna."

she grinned, stepping closer to him, holding her papers to her side.

"Why, Spot Conlon, I'll betcha five cents ya ain't even got the guts to hit me."

"Well, I wouldn't want to hurt ya."

She crossed her arms. "I didn't think any of us Bottle Alley  
girls was important enough for _Brooklyn _to get his panties in a bunch about our safety."

"I just wouldn't wanna be responsible for ruinin' such a pretty face," he said, lifting his hand and slowly tracing her scar with the very tip of his finger. She blushed for a brief moment, but quickly replaced it with a scowl as she pushed his hand away.

"I assure you that someone has already taken care of that rather completely," she responded in a low voice.

"Sling-"

"Fight me." The change in her voice was abrupt and forceful.

His eyes, which had softened for the briefest of moments, darkened and narrowed as she took a defiant stance, letting her papers fall to the dusty ground.

"Is this why you're on my turf, SlingShot?" His voice came as a hiss between his teeth as he took a last drag from his cigarette before dropping it to the ground. "You come into Brooks for a soakin'?"

"No. I came to win."

"Win what?" He demanded, the tone in his voice almost indicating the need for a childish stomp of his foot.

"How many girls-or guys, for that matter-can say they went up against the famous, feared Spot Conlon - and _won_?"

He growled, fists clenched. She was playing with his reputation now, trying to needle him into fighting her. It came closer and closer to working with every word that fell from her over-confident mouth.

"What, you want to fight me for your damned reputation?" A growing one, if the rumors Spot listened to were true.

She shrugged. Whatever reputation she'd developed around New York, she sure as hell hadn't been trying for it. Not that she was complaining about it or anything.

"I'd call it something more like curiosity," she returned finally, sounding vaguely hesitant.

"You can't beat me, SlingShot"

"Ya never know till ya try."

"You're diggin' your own grave. Sure ya ready to lie in it?"

She grinned once again, "Or, maybe I'll just push you in instead."

Spot was at the end of his rope now. Girl or not, SlingShot had pushed him quite far enough. He was not responsible for his actions or their consequences once his pride took over. Which, now that he thought about it, wasn't an entirely uncommon occurrence.

SlingShot made the first move. Spot knew better than that. For all that everyone said she was a great fighter, apparently she didn't even know to follow the cardinal rule. Ether that or she was just too stupid. Spot was inclined to believe both as he easily dodged the straight punch she'd aimed at his jaw, landing a solid fist in her stomach. She grunted, staggering back several steps before recovering enough to try again, this time landing her originally intended blow to his jaw. The force of the punch made him freeze for a moment, staring at her with his mouth slightly agape. Until a moment ago, he'd been operating under the assumption that SlingShot didn't know how to throw a proper punch. That she might actually be a decent fighter changed the matter entirely. He narrowed his eyes. He might have to actually beat the hell out of her. Even worse, it might not turn out to be an easy task. All this flashed through his head in a split second, and he quickly raised an arm, blocking SlingShot's next assault at the last possible moment. Frustrated, she came at him again, and Spot couldn't help but wonder at the fire in her eyes. He'd heard she was ruthless in a fight, but had underestimated her as he did most girls who had the audacity to call themselves newsies. Now that he was close enough to see into her eyes, the anger and hatred there were as clear as day. He wondered what the beautiful girl before him had been through to put that look in her eyes.

He shook his head, driving away the thoughts that were causing his mind to roam from the fight at hand.

She deflected his next punch with skill, much to his unending surprise, and landed one in his stomach. As he doubled over only the slightest bit, she grabbed him by the shoulders, forced him in closer to her and rammed a knee up between his legs. Spot gasped and cursed loudly in surprise.

"You little-"

"I don't remember anyone setting down any rules," SlingShot cut his protest off with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. "Though I'd certainly understand if you've ... had enough."

Spot righted himself with a growl, not letting the pain radiating in the more sensitive areas of his body change his fighting stance one bit.

"Not by a long shot," he spat back, smirking. She wanted to play dirty? Fine, they'd play dirty. And no newsie in their right mind would want to go up against Spot Conlon once he'd decide to fight dirty. And no one was stupid enough to deliberately provoke him to.

Until now.

Her hair was tucked up under her hat as it always was, and now Spot shot a hand out and knocked it off with a quick flick of his wrist. As waist-length curls cascaded down, he used his other hand to grab a chunk of them and yanked back as hard as he could until he'd dragged her to the ground. He ignored her yells, keeping a firm grip on her hair as he roughly kicked her in the ribs. She managed to block his attempts on her face, but only barely, throwing up an arm to protect herself.

After taking another painful kick to the ribs, she managed to shove both feet up and into his stomach, kicking him with all the strength she had in her. He felt the wind leave his lungs with force and released her hair for long enough for her to scramble to her feet and get in a few vengeful shots to his ribs, her own throbbing with each move that she made.

Spot shoved her roughly away, taking the moment's advantage this allowed him to pull his cane free from his belt. He was sick of this, and clearly any inclination to fight fair had died early on in the fight. She came at him still, apparently unafraid of the weapon he held, and he brought it around toward her head, making direct and forceful contact. Her face, previously so void of emotion, contorted, and she let out a strangled noise of surprise before crumpling, unconscious, to the ground.

Spot took a deep breath, letting it out with a hiss. He replaced his cane carefully before crouching down next to the still girl, running a hand tiredly over his face. Had it been anyone else, he would have just walked away, but his body seemed to be acting of his own accord as he lifted the girl up, cradling her almost gently in his arms. He stood, and started a slow journey back to the Brooklyn Lodging House, ignoring the astounded looks of those newsies who had witnessed the fight.

-----------------------------

Thanks to we've all got our junk for being my beta read, that was awesome.

Reviews are loved and appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2: In Brooklyn

This chapter is dedicated to we've all got our junk, for being such an awesome beta reader and fellow stage manager!

Disclaimer: I do not own newsies, though I dearly wish otherwise

Please review!!

************

**Chapter Two: In Brooklyn**

When SlingShot woke up, she had a migraine that rivaled any headache she could ever remember having. She groaned, rolling over onto her stomach only to experience an explosion of pain in her ribs. She rolled slowly back over with another moan of pain.

"Yeah, it's probably best you try to avoid laying on your stomach for a while."

Her eyes snapped open at the voice, darting around the room until they landed on Spot, standing in the corner of the small room, next to the door. She stared at him in confused silence, memories of the fight slowly trickling back to her. Clearly, she hadn't come out on top, but why hadn't Spot just left her where she'd been?

"Where?" She couldn't seem to get her brain and her mouth to connect for long enough to form a proper question, and she squeezed her eyes shut in frustration. Spot simply smirked, moving from the corner to the wooden stool next to the bed she was lying in.

"Brooklyn," he explained as he sat down next to her. "This is our sick room. I know it ain't much but..." He paused, looking her pointedly in the eye, "I figured it was the least I owed ya."

She sat up abruptly, suddenly alert and ignoring the fireworks that went off in both her head and ribs and the sudden movement.

"I don't need your pity, Conlon."

"Would you have preferred me to leave you unconscious on the streets of Brooklyn?"

"Better than awake and in your presence," she shot back without missing a beat.

"Well aren't you in a pisser of a mood." His smirk became more pronounced, if that was even possible, "Bit of a sore loser, are we, SlingShot?"

She glared at him for a moment, crossing her arms.

"You wouldn't have beat me in a fair fight."

"I wasn't the one who made it otherwise."

Spot's comment was rewarded with another glare. Sling huffed softly in frustration and hissed through her teeth at the pain that a deep breath afforded her. She narrowed her eyes.

"Why didn't ya just take me back to Bottle Alley?" She demanded after a few moments of uncomfortable tension.

Spot raised and eyebrow and snorted in amusement.

"Yeah, and carry ya all the way across the bridge and into Manhattan. I don't owe ya _that _much."

"You owe me nothing."

"A simple 'thank you' would suffice."

"In your dreams, Brooklyn."

Spot raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, "Alright, alright. God, with pride like that, ya might as well stay in Brooks."

She laughed derisively in response, shaking her head and looking reasonably amused for someone in her condition and situation.

Spot stood, looking down at her with annoyance plain on his face.

"Dinner's in a few minutes if... if ya wanna join us."

SlingShot snorted and closed her eyes, resting her head back on her pillow. Spot stood in the doorway for a moment, until it became clear that she intended to offer up no other answer. Without another word, Spot stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him and cursed a blue streak as he stormed down to the kitchen.

SlingShot, eyes closed and apparently asleep, smirked.

***

After a dinner that he could barely even remember eating, Spot was headed for the docks, cigarette in his mouth as usual. The docks were crowded as they always were with his boys, but they all cleared away from his usual spot as soon as they saw him coming. It was this place that had earned him his nickname years ago, as he was always fighting people for his 'spot' on the docks. As he sat down, legs dangling over the edge of the wood, he took a frustrated drag from his cigarette.

The newsies on the docks were all watching from the corners of their eyes, muttering to each other about the strange behavior of their leader.

Spot, for a change, didn't even notice. He stared out over the river, lost in his own thoughts. He had no idea why he was even so bothered by the ungrateful little girl currently taking residence in his sick room. Furthermore, he had no idea why he hadn't kicked her out on her over-confident ass as soon as she'd woken up and started running her mouth.

He scowled at the water. She was awake and clearly still had her memory. She'd surely be able to walk, at least well enough to get her home. He should send her now before darkness fell. She'd said it herself – he owed her nothing.

A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead, barely missing his eye, and he scowled in frustration up at the tempestuous sun.

"Damn heat," he muttered.

"You talkin' to yourself now, Conlon? I mean, I knowed you was losing your grip on reality, but I thought it would be a few years at least before you reached this state."

"What do you want, Racetrack?"

The sarcastic Italian boy plopped down next to Spot without bothering to explain himself. Spot narrowed his eyes.

"Get off my turf, Tony. I ain't in no mood," he growled.

Racetrack grinned, entirely unabashed as he lit his own cigarette. Spot flicked the remainders of his into the water and turned to face the older boy.

"Tell me why you're here, Racetrack."

"Can't a fella just drop in to visit an old friend?"

"Ya ain't got no friends in Brooklyn, Racetrack."

"Ya cut me deep, Conlon, ya really do."

Spot shook his head with yet another scowl. He'd been scowling so much today that his face was actually getting tired of it. He lit another cigarette out of pure agitation at his current company. He turned his attention quietly to the stillness of the river, ignoring Racetrack entirely.

"Look...Sean..."

Spot watched Racetrack carefully from the corners of his eyes, a slight smirk on his face but not saying a word.

"We – over in Manhattan – well, we heard _rumors_ about a – a fight." Racetrack's word were slightly hesitant, and he was clearly attempting to choose words that would not incite Spot's wrath.

"Heard rumors, huh? A fight ain't exactly uncommon 'round these parts. What fight's so interestin' to ya?" He raised an eyebrow. He knew exactly why Racetrack was there, but he wasn't going to make this conversation easier on the Manhattan boy. Racetrack sighed in exasperation.

"C'mon, Spot. You know what I'm talkin' about. Didn' ya fight SlingShot earlier today?"

Spot regarded Racetrack carefully, blowing a steady stream of smoke from his nostrils.

"Did Jack send ya?"

"No. Well, yes, but not in the way you think. A few of the Bottle Alley girls.... they stopped in and asked Jack to send someone to Brooklyn to check on SlingShot. An' you know how Jack's sweet on that Jessica."

Spot laughed, shaking his head. "I didn' know that Jacky-boy was under the beck and call of the Bottle Alley girls."

"He ain't," Racetrack growled, indignant. "But he's just trying to help them out, that's all."

Raising an eyebrow, Spot pressed on. "But SlingShot stayed with you once, didn't she?"

"For a time, yes. But she was quiet then, stayed out of the way, and only stayed until she found lodging with the Bottle Alley girls. She wasn't friends with any of us. I barely remember the girl." Racetrack paused, eying Spot suspiciously. "What's it matter to you, anyway?"

"It don't. I'm just wonderin' why you was willing to risk your neck for a buncha girls."

"We take care of our own, Spot, no matter how long or short they stay. An' those girls ain't got no one lookin' out for 'em."

Spot laughed again, shaking his head. "Manhattan always was the more sentimental bunch."

"There's no shame in caring about people, Spot."

"It's every man for himself in this world, Racetrack. It's the only way to survive."

There was a pause in which Racetrack took a long look at Spot.

"Maybe that's why most of New York hates you so bad, Conlon."

Spot only smirked.

"I don't care if they hate me, so long as they fear me."

"Then you're wasting your time with SlingShot."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"She'll never fear you, Conlon."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Just a simple statement of fact, is all." Racetrack paused for a moment. "Is she okay, Spot?"

Spot simple smirked, rolling his eyes at the absurdity of it all.

"C'mon, Spot, just let me head on up to the lodging house an' take her home."

"Not until ya tell me what makes her so important."

"She ain't important, Spot. Jack's just tryin' to help the girls out, that's _all_. They protect each other, those girls."

Spot chuckled derisively. "She don't strike me as a girl who needs protection"

"Maybe not" Race replied, "But everyone needs to be taken care of every now an' again."

Spot met Racetrack's eyes again, frowning. "Who says I ain't takin' care of 'er?"

Racetrack, stunned into silence by this comment, looked away, unsure of how to respond. After taking a few more drags from his cigarette, he looked warily back at Spot.

"Are ya? Takin' care of 'er?"

Spot scowled. "She stays in Brooklyn until she can go home."

***

Racetrack walked back to Manhattan very confused at the happenings of the evening. Spot was acting strangely, and he had no idea what to make of it. Maybe he shouldn't have allowed SlingShot to stay. Maybe there was something here he wasn't seeing; there often was when it came to Spot Conlon. Then again, SlingShot wasn't any concern of the Manhattan boys. The only reason they were involved at all was because Jack was sweet on one of SlingShot's girls. Race winced inwardly. Jack wasn't going to be happy with him. Race felt like an idiot. He should know better than to take Spot Conlon at his word.

But Spot had acted so strangely, and some part of Racetrack wanted so badly to believe that his old friend had no malicious intent. Maybe he _was_ taking care of SlingShot. Yeah, and maybe Jack Kelly didn't like to pretend to be a cowboy. He sighed to himself, and there was only one question resonating through his head. The question whose answer might help solve some of their problems.

_Why?_


End file.
